LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



Shelf ....k/.S4 

UNITED STATES OF AMEEICA. 



lOST FOR A 




OMAN 



AND 



Other Poems. 



JAMES E, WRAT. 



i^ 






" From too much hope of Jiving, 

From hope and fear set free, 
We^thank with glad thanksgiving. 

Whatever gods there be : 
That no life lives forever, 
That dead men rise up never. 
That even the weariest river 
Winds somewhere safe to sea." 



— Swainburne 



'•//; 



?%^ 



NOV 2 1886 



W a/r 



Or 






VASHIN 



(^■^ 



ATLANTA, GA.: 

JAS. P. HARRISON A CO., PRINTfRS. 

1880, 




f^3 






CEniCATIDN. 



To 

-MV JiKLOVED I'Nt'LI'], 

MR. AUGUSTUS H. SCONYEKS, 

THIS VOLUME IS IXSCHIHED AS A SLKillT lUT 
MOST SINCERE TOKEN" OF (iKATITlDE 
AND ESTEEM. 

J. E. W 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1886, 

By JAMES E. WRAY, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 



TO JAMES E. WRAY, OF GEORGIA. 



What is the grand attraction now in view 

To lure you onward, pleasure, wealth or fame? 

A cultured mind? A proud, distinguished name. 

To be enrolled among the chosen few, 

Who carve their way, and hindrances subdue 

Which stand between them and their constant aim, 

And undismayed the royal road pursue? 

But is there not a more illustrious prize 

Than any gift that Pallas can impart, 

Above philosophy and classic art, 

A name — a fame, an honor which implies 

A pear-eful mind and purity of heart? 

Then be it > ours to seek for and secure 

This prize which shall eternally endure. 

S. M. 

Canadu. 



Preface- 



It is with a certain sense of timidity and aversion, that the 
following unpremeditated effusions in verse are given to the 
public. The Stagyrite says : ttoc to oiveioc epyo^ ayanau, but 
it was no ardent affection of this sort, I can truthfully say, 
that actuated this publication. Indeed, had the author de- 
pended upon his muse's merits, these poems would have long 
ago been consigned to their everlasting dread abode — the 
waste-basket. But friends have fawned and fools have flat- 
tered, until to-day I stand before the public, shrinking from 
the keen arrows of criticism which fly so unmercifully around 
me. And perchance the curious may inquire what my motives 
are for publication? To such I reply, simply to gratify the de- 
sire of my friends, and also to obtain means which will enable 
me to pursue my classic studies at Emory College. 

The principal poem in this collection (Lost for a Woman) is, 
I fear, very defective in that marked accuracy, and finished 
elegance, by which the works of one are manifest, who has 
passed his life in delightful seclusion, pursuing his favorite 
studies. But surely the poems of a boy, who has not yet 
reached his eighteenth birthday, will not be expected to rival 
the artful correctness of a Virgil, or the perfect expression of a 
Horace. " Lost for a Woman" is of the Byronic school, and I 



Vllt PREFACE. 

sadly fear it will be fiercely condemned for its impetuous libid- 
inousness, its lewd plot, its passionate hero, its licentious he- 
roine, its terrible tragedy and its pitiful consequences. One of 
my learned friends, who read the poem at the time it was writ- 
ten Hast July), crowned me with the title of "An American 
Zola," "dealing frankly with vices in order to make them 
ugly." My answer to this gentleman shall serve as an apology 
to the public : That I am not so ambitious of becoming a sensa- 
tional writer, but rather, like Edmund Barke, I would bring 
before the public a deep humanity, a dread of crime, a keen 
sensibility, a fine vivacity, and a sincerity of consciousness. 
Nevertheless, it would prove a Herculean task, to take any po- 
sition in regard to the utility of picturing the awful misery and 
shame of sin, or endeavoring to supersede the depravity of fal- 
len humanity, by portraying every pernicious fancy intimately 
connected with it. 

-As to the other poems, some of which are very irregular, 
they were written at the age of ten, twelve, fifteen, and at later 
dates. 

Toward these boyish rhymes I entreat the mercy of the pub- 
lic, and ye who liold the mace of criticism over the children of 
literature, I beg that you scan this volume with some little in- 
dulgence, remembering that the transient fragrance and color 
of the summer rose may innocently please for a moment even 
the most careless eye. James Eddie Wkay. 

Midville, Ga., September 4, 188G. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH 



CONTENTS, 



POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 

Lost for a Woman "* 

ALover'sWish 37 

One Night's Revelry 33 

The Sunny South 41 

To Marie 38 

The Grave on the Hillside 39 

Love's Dream 43 

To Ida 44 

The Morn you Quoted Moore to me 45 

Serenade 47 

Evening Reverie 49 

Let me Kiss you Once and Die 50 

Dreaming 52 

To Ella in Elysium 54 

Love 56 

InMemoriam 1 57 

In Memoriam II 59 

Memories 61 

Dream Song 63 

Ode on the Death of Paul Hayne 64 



XII CONTENTS. 

To J. Y. J 66 

Desponding Life 67 

To one in Heaven 69 

May 71 

I Will Ever, Ever Love 73 

The Pine 75 

Until Death 77 

A Heart History 79 

Lines Written in an Album 81 

POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 

The Fairy Queen's Death 85 

Georgia 87 

Love's Song 91 

Do You Ever Think of Me 95 

April 97 

A Dream .. 99 

To Mrs. Mary E. Bryan lOJ 

Morning 36 

For Love and Thee 103 




LOST FDR R WOMAN. 



R TaW of Lc>v<^ ar(<d Sorrow. 



PART FIRST. 
I. 

I sing of the South, the land of the pine, 

Where the mock-bird trills in the wild rose brake, 
And the green moss clings to the gay woodbine, 

Where the lover dies for his love's sweet sake ; 
Where the golden summer forever smiles 

O'er the fairest fruits and brightest flow^ers, 
And the soul is lured bv the svren's wiles, 

Through the starry calm and the sun-lit hours ; 
Where the lily floats on the rippling stream, 

And the bee in the scented bloom reposes, 
Where life is a sort of a fairy dream, 

Love a tale of passion wreathed in roses ! 



10 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 

II. 

'Tis moonlight o'er Ogeechee's tide, 

The night-bird warbles in the grove, 
The waters with low murmurs glide, 

God makes such nights alone for love ! 
How softly falls the quiet hour, 
As petals from the wind-waved flower. 
Or silver dew upon the grass, 
Along the shores of dark morass. 
Blest hour ! more beloved than day. 
Softer the mock-bird's roundelav, 
And 'neath the hawthorn's leafy boughs, 
Fond lovers breathe their sweetest vows. 
Love ! this hour, resigned to thee. 
Is worth Fame's immortality ! 
Nature, arrayed in gorgeous hues, 
Tunes poet's lyre— invokes the muse. 
And stars look down with dreamy eyes 
As Heaven with Earth in beauty vies! 

III. 

'Tis not to gaze on the snowy flower 
That the fair Medora leaves her bower, 
And 'tis not to view the myrtle's bloom. 
Or the burning red, red rose of lust, 
The passion flower of sacred trust, 



Lost for a woman. 11 

That the lady glides through the moonlight gloom. 
Unmindful of the beauteous clime, 
Regardless of the scene sublime, 
Medora walks with care and dread, 
She fears lest one may hear her tread ; 
Doubting and slow with pauses oft, 
With wary eyes and breathings soft. 
She quickly glides among the trees ; 

Reaching a glade, the pretty rover, 
Blushing with guilty joy, sees 

Cecil Delaine, her poet lover. 

IV. 

Dost live a man with heart so cold, 
A poltroon, or a clansman bold. 
Or woman of the charming class, 
A haughty dame, or simple lass. 
Who ne'er have felt their spirits move. 
Beneath the wiles and smiles of love? 
If ye know not the lover's sin. 

List not unto my minstrelsy, 
'Twill prove to you a stupid din 

Set to a tune of vanity ; 
But ye with laughing eyes who smile, 

(Well, smile, 'tis better than to sigh), 
I pray you listen yet awhile 

Before you lay my ditty by. 



12 LOST I^OR A WOMAN. 

Sir Critic, is your pencil bright? 

If not, then here, I'll lend you mine, 
Style me a brainless, witling wight ; 

Your judgment on my muse decline. 
You know the saying of poor Carl, 
(And pretty true), ^'all curs will snarl!" 

V. 

The ladv and her love have met, 

Under the cedar's boughs of green, 
Since Eden's fall — oh, never yet 

Was such a comely couple seen ! 
Cecil, a tall and handsome lad, 

His skin was fair, his curls were gold, 
A deep blue eye, dreamy and sad, 

Where blazed poesy as of old ; 
And she, such beauty none before 

May kneel to kiss her finger tips. 
Why, comrade, many a knight of yore 

Had died to press them to his lips. 
Her eyes were violet depths of love. 

Wilds where the soul oft lost its way : 
Her hair was like the day-god's ray 
That flashes from the skies above. 
Her form was like a work of art, 
Venus such grace could not impart, 
But why proceed ? — this girl, so young, 



LOST FOR A WOMAN. 13 



Was fairer than all songs have sung. 
The lone night-bird pours forth her tones, 

Upon the haunted graveyard hill, 
A tender strain, but still she owns 

That Cecil's words are sweeter still. 
The Northern child is cold of blood, 

His love can ne'er be sung by lyre, 
Cecil's was like a rushing flood. 

Or ^Etna's raging heart of fire. 
The luring moon's seductive light 

Fell o'er a scene I dare not name. 
Conscience was drugged that summer night. 

When passion passed the pales of shame ! 
And modest flowers drop a tear 
While gazing on pure Virtue's bier; 
The stars blush in the (juiet skies, 
Oh, could we love and still be wise ! 

VI. 

Ah ! gentle maiden, blush no more, 

Poor swain, all love-lorn, cease your sighs, 
(Critic, no need to snap your eyes). 
The lovers' little trvst is o'er. 
Oh, Burns, how truly thou hast said, • 
''Our pleasures are like poppies spread, 
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed." 



14 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 

Farewell is such a lonely word, 

But sweetest scenes are soonest past, 
E'en now the nightingale's not heard, 

And lovers' kisses cannot last. 
The brightest spring must end in May, 

Death ever dims the laughing eye. 
The fairest flowers bloom but a day, 

And now the lovers say ''good-bye." 
No more in God's great world they'll meet, 
While breakers roar and surges beat. 
Till Gabriel proclaims the day 
The universe shall pass away ! 

VII. 

Hist ! to that growl, or angry howl. 

Like a wolf the forests among, 
Or the weird hoot of a ghostly owl 

In a tall tree's branches swung. 
But hark ! it echoes far around 
A deeper and more deadly sound. 
The fairies of the woods grow pale, 
And hastens home the nightingale. 
It is the lightning's lurid glare 
That hurtles thro' the silent air ; 
A storm is coming o'er the sky, 
Fierce armed with God's artillery. 



LOST FOR A WOMAN. 15 

VIII. 

Cecil lies in his lonely bed, 

Dreaming of a brother's bride, 
While Harold rests his lordly head 

Medora's guilty heart beside 
Oh, wanton wife, what dreams are thine, 

Thy cheeks suffused in rosy flame. 
Smiles wandering round thy lips divine. 

Bespeaking dire guilt and shame? 
And as the trusting husband lay. 
Awaiting storm and lightning's fray. 
He gazed upon his love — his own — 
The yellow tangles of her hair. 
Like golden rays of sunset fair. 
Fell o'er her bosom's drift of snow. 
And lovely mystery below. 
As in a faintly murmured tone. 

Something she breathes there lurked within, 

An awful crime of shame and sin. 
Telling of holy virtue flown ! 
Mad Harold glared upon his wife 

One moment, springing from the bed, 

Clutching a dagger overhead — 
''By God ! I'll take her wicked life !" 
Medora woke at that wild cry 
To see the lightning flashing by. 



16 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 

The thunder crashes through the sky. 

But Jesus ! God of Heaven ! 
What rage of Nature can compare 
With man's when driven to despair^ 

A soul with anger riven ? 
When roses from some cave are brought, 
Thro' snow-robed days and nights have wrought, 

Their beauteous blossoms frail and rare, 
And thrust into the wintry gale, 
All cold with breath of frost and hail, 

Mark ! how they freeze before its glare. 
An instant thus she lay, and then 
The syren was herself again. 

IX. 

''Oh, kill me not," she cried, and toss'd 
Her trembling hands to Heaven, "lost. 
Yea, lost to all, not I to blame, 
'Twas Cecil worked my woe, my shame ; 

He seized me in the lone pine wood" — 
Craven woman of lying tongue. 

Sharper than the lightning's dart 
Thy devilish evil falsehood stung 

The husband's quiv'ring, bleeding heart. 

Harold starting where he stood. 
Murder gleams brighter in his eye, 

That told of fair young Cecil's doom, 



LOST FOR A WOMAN. 17 



O flower nipped in early bloom, 
"Damned be his soul, then he shall die!" 
Anger indeed is fire from Hell, 

And Jealousy its child accurs'd. 

Causing the damned assassin first. 
By which mankind all gory fell ! 
And when its spasm sacks the brain 

And ravishes the struggling breast, 
The soul is powerless to restrain 

Its foul command, its dark behest ! 

X. 

What sounds within Delaine's old Hall ? 

A weapon clash, a heart-rung cry, 
Outside the wind and wild rain fall. 

The lightning's flash — thunder's reply. 
Again, again comes from within. 

A hellish thrilling brother's oath, 
A falling lamp, a crash, a din. 

And bitter curses ring from both. 
Then down upon the drama rushed 

The sable curtain dim with death, 
The lights are out, the storm-roar hushed, 

We scarce can hear the dying's breath ; 
Crazed Harold's hand is stained with gore 
And Cecil's heart-blood wets the floor ! 



18 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 

Comrade, gaze through the gloom on him, 
How fast the star-bright eyes grow dim. 
Oh, Christ ! it is an aAvful sight 
To view the immortal spirit's flight — - 
This glorious mind wither away, 

The soul from body sever ; 
This life departing from the clay, 

The breath leaving the breast forever ! 
I've seen the aged mother die. 
Even without one longing sigh ; 
The blushing bride of loveliness. 
Bewailing her poor mate's distress ; 
The little babe in saintly trance. 
Immersed in Heaven's radiance; 
The sinner wild with ghastly fear 
At fancied horrors which appear ; 
But these are naught when murder's cry 
Rises despairing to the sky ! 

XL 

The storm had ceased, 

Save in the east, 
Where its muffled voice we hear, 

There far away 

The lightnings play. 
Like torches over a bier. 



LOST FOR A WOMAN. 

Again fair Luna's silv'ry gleam 
Lies on the rock, and hill, and stream, 
Although the scene on which her beam 
Falls seems desolate and drear. 

A man is rushing through the night. 
Past shadows dim and pale moonlight. 
Nemesis goads his wild career. 
Lashing his soul with hideous fear ; 
His cries so wild that fill the air, . 
Die 'way in darkness like despair, 
For on his brow the curse of Cain 
Burns worse than does the madman's chain, 



19 



PART SECOND. 



Aurora smiles ; from out the southern sky 

The silver stars are fading one by one. 
And thro' the woods a breeze with gentle sigh 

Is heralding the coming of the sun. 
The sapphire sky is flecked with pink and gold, 

And in the dewy stillness of the morn 
The flowers slow their incense cups unfold. 

Wafting their fragrance to the rosy dawn. 
The wild birds waken, and their joyous song 

Is sounded through the pine tree colonnade, 



20 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 

And with the sunlight far it floats along, 
Till music fills each bosky grove and glade. 

Adown the sky the sunbeams whisper "peace," 
Glad Hope and Joy exult the hearts of men. 

Bright Nature bids all strife and discord cease. 
And Passion sleeps as ne'er to wake again! 

II- 

Look far across the meadow lands. 
Crowning a tangled wooded slope, 

The morning sunlight streaming o'er 
The wild rose and the heliotrope. 
All gaily blooming round the door, 
The little country chapel stands ; 
Though built by rude and artless hands. 
It is a holy place of prayer, 

And at the "common mercy seat" 
Both Dives and Lazarus doth meet 
To bless — to ask forgiveness there. 

IIL 

Faintly sounds the morning hymn, 

As up thro' the sombre isle. 
And through the shadows wan and dim. 

With weary step, a sinner vile 
Comes forward ; oh ! the haggard face. 

White as a corse dragged from the grave, 



LOST FOR A WOMAN. 21 

Wild eyes that burned with crime's disgrace, 

And bowing like the galley slave ; 
And yet the wond'ring priest could trace 
Culture, refinement, honor, truth. 
The courtly mein of titled youth ; 
But on that face, upon that brow. 
Naught but wild anguish rests there now. 
The priest on bended knee began : 

"My son, why seekest thou this shrine 

For absolution — gift divine?" 
"Nay, I'll not call thee fool, good man. 

But that is not a gift of thine." 
The Jesuit turned his eyes to Heaven, 
Praying the soul might be forgiven. 
"Father, the frenzied fires of grief. 

Which burn so madly in my brain, 
Perchance confession bring relief, 

To tell my story, ease the pain ; 
The tale of sorrow shall be brief. 

Like blood-drops from a mangled vein. 
Each word from out my heart shall come. 
Then I will evermore be dumb. 
For every thought of life to me 
Is fraught with bitterest misery. 
Hast seen thou how^ young Cenci stood. 
Gory with her own father's blood. 



22 LOST ^OH A WOMAN. 

Or pictures of some Cain's remorse ? 

Could mine be painted, it is worse. 

I would hail madness as a friend, 

If madness bid mv mem'ries end ; 

Yea, hopeless idiocy would be 

God's choicest boon bestowed on me ! 

Black hell — damnation cannot show 

A deeper, a more fearful woe. 

Than this which burns within mv breast, 

Aching in its desire for rest — 

Woe that has turned my hair to snow 

Like raven plumes few hours ago. 

IV. 

"I was the oldest of the two. 



A goodly stripling of a boy. 
And I can say it was but few 
In sport or brawl that could subdue, 

I was my father's pride and joy. 
And Cecil — father, bear Avith me, 

My heart and brain with horror 's riven, 
A little lower bend thy knee. 

My crime can never be forgiven 
In this life or eternity !" 
The Jesuit made a holy sign, 
"The Virgin's pity, son of mine." 



LOST Fon A WOMAN. 23 

"Fair Cecil, crowned with tress of gold, 

He was our sainted mother's pet,^ 
More gentle you will ne'er behold, 

For life's stern ways he was not met ; 
But rather given, that lovely child. 

To dream within some lady's bowers. 
Or linger in the forest wild, 

Musing away the golden hours. 
He loved the lonely fields and wood. 

And all of Nature — streams that wind 

Among the hills, where blossoms twined 
With pine boughs — he would brood 

From morn until fair Hesper came. 

In tender sadness or wild flame. 
O'er all the Beautiful and Good. 

V. 

"The sounds of war's red tumult rose. 

And parents list with ])ated breath, 
Friends' life-blood on the hillside flows. 

The brazen cannons' lips belched death. 
Our Spartan bands went to the fight 

And bravely met the men in blue. 
Ah ! 'twas a long, long ruthless night. 

But Southern hearts were leal and true ! 
My father fell while in the fray. 



24 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 

Oh, Friar, I was at his side, 

(Fighting the North dogs was my pride). 
My sire wrapped the immortal gray 

Around his noble breast and died, 
His soaring soul consigned to God, 
His body 'neath the 'rebel sod.' 

VI. 

''And when the storms of war were o'er 

And Janus closed his temple door, 

My mother faded like the gleams 

Of sunset from a crystal stream ; 

Or like the lily of the vale 

When autumn winds begin to wail. 

VII. 

"Swiftly the moons have rolled away, 

Two, three since home I brought my bride ; 

I loved her. Friar, as they say, 

'Far more than all the world beside.' 

It was the love that God hath given. 

The love of which we dream in Heaven. 

I lived as under some strange spell. 
Father, your days have passed alone. 
Pleading for sinners at the throne; 

You know not of the bliss I tell, 

But surely you have witnessed woe, 



LOST FOR A WOMAN. 25 

And seen love's earthly ties all riven, 
Souls crushed by treachery's foul blow, 

Where naught save love had e'er been given. 
E'en mercy hath a hungry heart, 

Prayers fall upon her ear in vain ; 
Pity will ne'er withdraw his dart 

And never heed the sufferer's pain ! 
Love's blind unto an idol's sin. 
Great God ! it seems Hell bursted in 
Upon my Eden. I believe 
That cursed passion finds its way 
'Mid wilds where fiends might fear to stray ! 

VIII. 

''Father, do spirits of the dead 

From ghostly shadows e'er return ? 
Last night beside my forest bed 

This awful sight I did discern, 
A silent room, a creeping shade, 

A murdered brother on the floor. 
Cold fingers on my throat were laid, 

Two death-dimmed eyes, a scream, the gore, 

Oh, father, start not — then 'twas o'er. 
I wildly cried unto my God, 

I called upon my mother's name, 



20 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 

I fell upon the flowery sod, 

My brain and heart were all aflame !" 
"Ave Maria," the Jesuit cried, 
Oh, save him from the Stygian tide !" 



u 



IX. 

"Medora, oh, my wanton bride. 

So evil and so passing fair, 
Could lure men to her gilded side, 

And mesh them in her golden hair. 
The siren of the Loreley height. 

The Circe of the poet's tale. 
Charmed but the souls of men to blight, 

To hear her victim's dying wail ! 
'Tis beauty makes the woman strong, 

A gleam from out her tender eyes 
Converts to good the vilest wrong, 

Makes holy truth a hoard of lies, 

And sacred Right for Love's smile dies. 
We gaze upon a queenly form, 

And long to kiss the lips and die, 
And pass to Heaven from strife and storm, 

Beneath the magic of her eye, 

Lethean dream, without a sigh. 
Ah! there are some with scented breath, 

A nectar draught they bid man crave, 



Lost for a woman. 27 

Luring with wily tread to death, 

And smiling smiles that make him rave, 

Unfits for life beyond the grave. 
Yet there are others — angels bright — 

Who came from Aidenn's realms to dwell 
'Mid fallen men, a radiant light, 

From out their sinless soul's pure cell, 

They light the way to Heaven from Hell ! 
Beatrice, with her comely grace, 

Filling with rapture Dante's heart, 
Sweet Laura, of the lovely face. 

Led Petrarch to his Sapphic art. 

While Cleopatra rent Love's mart. 
And even now Cleopatras tread 

Life's highways, urging men to deeds 
Of crime, and when the joy has fled. 

They scorn the subjects of their creeds. 

Broken by scandal's breath like reeds. 
Medora, like the poet's verse, 

When on thy guilty, golden head, 
I would call a bitter curse, 

Prayers pervade my soul instead. 
Would to God I ne'er had seen thee 

And never given thee my heart. 
For I love thee — madly love thee — 

Vile and sinful as thou art. 



28 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 

Father, she looke'd a queen that night, 

As she murmur'd the marriage vow ; 
The bridal veil and orange bright, 

Seemed soiled by her lily brow. 
The flashing gems shone in her hair. 

And she was beauteous as a dream, 
The rosy lips love's vows declare — 

Oh, memory, recall thy beam ! 

X. 

" I heard her whisp'ring in her sleep, 
I thought I heard her breathe my name ; 

Ah! then with loving joy I weep, 
O'er her who loves me aye the same. 

I listened — in the midnight gloom, 

0, God ! I heard my ghastly doom ; 

My brother had disgraced our name, 

My wife a prostitute of shame ! 

Demoniac madness burned my brain, 

My heart broke with despair and pain ; 

A thousand fiends invade mv soul, 

My manhood lo^t its stern control. 

I would have slain my fair, false wife, 
But by a cruel wicked lie, 
(Oh, Clirist ! my mortal agony,) 

She turned aside the savage knife. 



LOST FOR A WOMAN. 29 



And weeping with a grief sublime, 
She swore that Cecil wrought the crime, 
And when I thought her innocent, 
My very soul with rage was rent! 

XI. 

"Ah ! need I prate in pauling strain 
My woe — my loved lost, brother slain ? 
We met not on the tilting ground, 
Rushing with fired brain I found 
Him sleeping — woke him for the fight. 
Poor boy ! fought bravely till he fell, 
Encompass'd by the fiends of hell. 
There, in the darkness of the night, 
1 stabbed him o'er and o'er again, 
Until he bled at every vein ! 

XII. 

"Twas horror smote the servant's ear«^, 
And when with sad amaze and tears, 
With weepings wild and ghastly awe. 
And shrieking in their terror, saw 
The pale corpse lying in the place. 
Bloody and dead in all its grace — 
Concealment was no more — they spoke. 
And on my startled senses broke 
How she — Medora — lured the boy 



80 " LOST FOR A WOMAN. 

To passion's secret sin and joy, 
And after all 'twas hers the guilt, 
His life-blood for a lie was spilt ! 

XIIL 

"Oh, father, I can say no more, 

My brain would burst ! My tale is o'er ; 

I thank thee for the liberal tear, 

That fell in pity so sincere ; 

And you have heard my story true, 

How by my hand in grief and ire, 

Deceived, my brother did expire, 
Jesus will judge between us two; 
We've both committed frightful crimes. 
Left to the scribe of other times. 
The hero's harp — the lover's lyre 

Dare not the theme of Sin awake. 
The notes would hush — too soon expire. 

The trembling chords would harshly break, 
Nor hoary bard, nor minstrel gray. 

Shall our deeds on harp-strings raise, 
Song chants the fame of Glory's clay, 

What poet sounds a culprit's praise?" 

XIV. 

By Ogeechee's stream the women wail. 

And men of sterner nerve, their cheeks are pale ; 



LOST FOR A wo:\rAN. 31 

Harold, the proud, tho last of Delaine's race, 
Reposing on his death-bed — restless pillow, 

And the vulture shrieking above his face, 

Which heaved and tossed with the heaving billow. 

* >1< >'f: * :^ >i< ^ ^ * ^ 

They drew his body from the glistening tide, 

And bore it to the grave with pomp and pride, 

And laid him at his murder'd brother's side. 

Happy escape ! ne'er more to feel the force 

Of passion, shame, abhorrence and remorse ; 

The assassin's agony — his miseries. 

The worm that never sleeps — that never dies. 

Crazed Harold had been missed for many days, 

His friends and foes had searched the forest ways. 

Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom proclaim, 

Whether he lived alone to hide his shame. 

Or in despair and grief he took his life, 

To the gay city gone his bride — his wife. 

And Cecil buried on the windy hill, 

Delaine's old hall was ghostly, dark and still. 

The hermit spider's thin gray veils. 

Along the lonely wall prevails ; 

The owl hoots in the lonely tower, 

The bat flits thro' the ladies' bower ; 

The servants fly the haunted Hall, 

No steed is grazing in the stall ; 



32 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 

No dog howls at his Master's gate, 

Only a few short moons ago, 

Love reigned with mirth — now all is woe, 
Comrade, strange are the Avays of Fate I 

XV. 

"Lost for a woman" young Cecil lies, 

With Harold beneath the stars' pale light, 

But, oh! could they see the laughter-lit eyes. 
And the gem covered bosom so bright, 
Of Medora who dances to-night ! 



ONE NIGHT'S REVELRY. 

Dedicated to her who best understands it. 
Nay, fairest, tempt me not I pray 

To sip the rosy wine; 
One summer night I gaily drank 

To beauty fair as thine. 
Her eyes were fiU'd with laughing light, 

Her whispers soft and low, 
But ah ! the spell engulfed my soul 

In shades of deepest woe. 

Drunken with beauty's thrilling charm, 

The music — flowers rare, 
I seized the cup and madly drank 

"The wine that conquers care." 
Then, lovely lady, urge me not, 

My youthful dreams are bright, 
And if I drain that fiery bowl, 

'Twill wreck my soul to-night. 

She moved me with a siren's song, 

(You know that angels fell) 
She lured me to the shores of sin, 

Immersed my soul in hell ! 
In God's name, hurl the glass away, 

I cannot drink to thee, 



34 ONE night's revelry. 

Or I would fall at Bacchus' shrine 
In black eternity. 

Ah, Circe, I have not the power 
To nobly turn away, 

Or to your dang'rous dulcet tones 

Declare a manly nay. 
The purple grapes the Orient grows, 

Ambrosial draughts of joy, 
One chalice of the ruby flame, 

I'll drain — I'm but a bov. 

Yes, bring the golden goblet on, 

I'll not go far astray, 
The sages tell that man is best, 

Who had his youthful day. 
Know ye my blood is on your head. 

Whatever comes of this, 
If in that awful judgment day 

The goal of goals I miss ! 

To-night my lonely mother prays 

Jesus to bless her son, 
That I escape temptation's wiles 

And cross fate's Rubicon. 
My father sleeps within his grave, 

And shudders, crazed with fear. 



ONE night's Rf:VELRY. 35 

Lest I should fall from Honor's height, 
Follow his wild career. 

But ah ! away such thoughts as these, 

Sweet lady, come with me, 
Debauched with beauty, song and wine, 

We'll join the revelry. 
The silk-robed girls, the lace-robed fays, 

The sylph-like forms so fair, 
Dance to the viol's sob and cry. 

Gay laughter fills the air. 

* ^ * * * >i< * 

Ah me! my midnights revel's o'er, 
I wander here alone, 

In agony from my poor heart 

There bursts a bitter moan ; 
Enslaved again by cursed wine, 

And blaze of passion's light. 
Oh Christ, I had not broke my word 

For all this world to-night. 



MORNING. 

Aurora opes her sleepy eyes 
In the cold, gray eastern skies, 
With white hands she sweeps aside, 
Ermine curtains dim and wide. 
Aurora lieth still in bed, 
Fringed with purple, gold and red ; 
Now she rises wan and chill, 
Smiling on the earth so still, 
Wrapping round her classic form 
Bright blue garments rich and warm, 
And her streaming golden hair, 
Zephyrs soft whirl everywhere. 
See, the sleeping world awakes, 
And each now his burden takes, 
Thus she crowns the hours with beauty 
Toil and gladness, love and duty. 



A LOVER'S WISH. 

If Byron's love-tuned lyre were mine 

This night, this soft, sweet summer night, 
I'd sweep the quiv'ring chords divine, 

And love's wild rapture would excite ; 
My song would be of passion's pain, 

That Ida, my fair queen, should hear, 
And troubadours of sunny Spain 

Would listen with a smile, a tear. 

The meshes of sweet Ida's hair. 

Have wove me m their wavy tress, 
That floats about her forehead fair, 

And lays upon it mild caress. 
Her dreamy eyes, like pale moonshine, 

Have made sad havoc of my heart. 
Her touch thrills me like ruby wine — 

O, madly sweet is Cupid's dart. 

But, ah 1 cold words can ne'er express 

Her queenly grace, her fairy wiles. 
Her perfect Helen loveliness, 

Her blithesome laugh, her winsome smiles; 
And so if Byron's lyre were mine 

This night, this soft, sweet summer night, 
I'd sweep the quiv'ring chords divine, 

And love's wild rapture would excite. 



TO MARIE. 

And will you mourn when I am dead ? 

My darling, say that once again, 
And then I'll die in love and peace, 

For there's naught in this world but pain. 

After long years of sin and shame, 

After a life of bitter woe. 
If death will calmly come to me, 

To the grave 111 gladly go. 

And will you mourn when I am dead? 

My darling, say that once again. 
And then I'll die in love and peace, 

For there's naught in this world but pain. 



THE GRAVE ON THE HILLSIDE, 

Yonder is a sunny hill-side, 

Skirting the river's winding flow, 
Where the flowers lie in winter, 

'Neath a canopy of snow ; 
Where the modest, starry daisies, 

Bloom in beauty in the spring, 
And the zephyrs fan the songsters, 

While they sweetly coo and sing. 

Yes, in winter when the pale sun 

Crowns the pine tree-covered hill, 
Shadows darken on the hill-side. 

Ghostly, ominous and still ; 
And the crimson leaves like banners, 

Of a fairy army fled, 
Fring'd with white and golden glory. 

Wildly waver overhead. 

There a shaft of pallid marble 
Rears its tall and ghastly dome. 

Telling pilgrims on the hill-side 
Of an angel that's gone home. 

And I loved her— madly lov^d her, 
But the Father loved her, too, 



40 THE GRAVE ON THE HILLSIDlJ. 

So she's sleeping on the hill-side, 
'Neath the sky so wonderous blue. 

And I'm weeping, oh, I'm weeping, 

And my soul forever craves, 
For the vision of my darling. 

Far beyond this realm of graves, — 
Oh, the mem'ry of that loved one, 

From my life will never part, 
Ah ! that green grave on the hill-side, 

Dims the sunlight of my heart ! 



THE SUNNY SOUTH. 

Oh, come to the South, love ! oh, come there with me, 
'Tis the land of my sires that crowns the bright sea; 
'Tis the clime of the rose and the lily so fair, 
(They were born but to blush and to sleep in thy hair) 
And the bloom-scented zephyrs have so soft a tone — 
Oh, come to the South, love, I'll make thee my own ! 

The North has its ice-temples— dazzling array. 
Its oceans are storm-tossed, its skies are all gray. 
O'er hills, thro' the valleys the storm king doth rove, 
And the lover ne'er knows of our warm Southern love; 
Oh, the dark, dreary moorlands are covered with snow, 
Then come to the South where the soft breezes blow. 

The West has its verdure, its song and its wine. 
And the radiant rays of bright gold shine ; 
The pale pearl gleams from the dark coral caves. 
And Hesper there sinks 'neath the calm ruby waves; 
But the sweet sunny South has its deep skies of blue, 
And the sunshine is golden — your hair's brilliant hue. 

The East has its wheat fields and rich yellow corn. 
And its hillsides are bathed in the light of the morn, 



42 THE SUNNY SOUTfl. 

Minerva and Mammon they stalk hand in hand, 
Though liberty's blood has bedewed the white sand; 
Then come with me, darling, oh, say little mouth, 
To the land of my love, to my own darling South. 



LOVE'S DREAM. 

* 

Beneath the soft, blue summer sky, 
Along the silvery tide of Wye, 
We sailed together — love and I. 

The sweet birds sang, the day was fair, 
Behind us left we grief and care — 
For Love and I, alone, were there ! 

The golden hours now swiftly fly. 
Fair lilies on my bosom lie, 
A rose-hued future I descry. 

* * * ;lc :^ 4t 

But oh, dear Love, I dream not now, 
The Summer's fled, and where art thou ? 
Oh, surely thou wilt keep thy vow. 

Ah! what to me is grief and pain, 
Life's many ills and sorrow's rain, 
If I could dream that dream again ? 

And now, beneath a Winter sky, 
Along the roaring, murky Wye, 
1 sail alone with bitter cry. 



TO IDA. 

Oh, Love, away, you cause me pain, 

You've ever been my foe; 
You bound me with a golden chain, 

And scourged me in my woe ! 

Friendship's a pure and holy word, 

And e'er a blessing proves. 
But ne'er again shall I be heard 

To sing and harp of loves ! 
Then, Love, away, you cause me pain, 

You've ever been my foe ; 
You've bound with a golden chain 

And scourged me in ray woe! 



THE MORN YOU QUOTED MOORE TO ME. 

We met! 'twas when the blushing May 

Was lying in the arms of Spring, 
Bright sunshine glorified the day, 

The zephyr flew on dewy wing ; 
But little recked I that the skies 

Were fair, or flowers strewed the lea, 
I only saw your bright blue eyes, 

The morn you quoted Moore to me. 

You spoke of " Lalla Rookh " and *' Loves 

Of Angels," summer's latest rose, 
'Twas like sweet melody of doves, 

In chestnut boughs at evening's close. 
We drank to Erin's glories past, 

You softly sang, " Come o'er the Sea," 
Ah ! sweet the spell love round us cast. 

The morn you quoted Moore to me. 

Your flashing eyes met mine and burned 
The love impassioned Sappho wrote, 

In ecstasy away I turned, 

As if to watch some cloud remote. 

" The harp that once through Tara's halls" 
Breathed soft along the lily lea, 



46 THE MORN YOU QUOTED MOORE TO ME. 

And rivaled e'en the mock-bird's calls 
The morn you quoted Moore to me 

Emanuel's vales were weeping dew, 

As floating thro' the sunny ways, 
And soaring to the heavens blue, 

" The dear harp of my country's'^ praise ; 
Sadly Ogeechee did bewail, 

No bright eyed poet-boy had she, 
To sing her songs and harp her tale. 

The morn you quoted Moore to me. 

Ah ! love was sweet and youth was fair. 

And joy o'er our lives did beam, 
But music dies upon the air, 

The roses fade from "Love's young dream." 
Still pass the sad years as of yore. 

On, on to dark eternity ; 
But I'll forget, ah ! never more, 

The morn you quoted Moore lo me ! 

Wire Grass Lawn, Emanuel Co., Ga. 



A SERENADE. 

Oh ! Muses, lend me Shelley's lute, 

Beneath my lady's bovver to stray. 
The amorous nightingales are mute, 

Amid the rose's tangled spray ; 
The moonlight lieth over all, 

And sleeps upon my lady's hair, 
I'll climb the ivy on the wall. 

Lend me the lute — I hasten there. 

I'll breathe a strain so sweet and low. 

The rapture of a minstrel's art, 
That shame will stain the songs which flow 

Out of the poet's breaking heart. 
Oh, say, is that my lady's face, 

Is that her graceful form in white. 
Or is it but the flowers that grace 

The tender glory of the night ? 

SONG. 

In the night lonely 

My love reposes. 
Fair as the flowers, 

Sweet as the roses ; 



48 A SERENADE. 

Bonnie blue eyes, 

Peacefully rest, 
Till the wind dies 

Out in the west. 

Stars, shine thee brightly, 

Through the night still}^, 
Angels, guard holy, 

Where sleeps m}^ lily. 
Sleep, bonnie eyes. 

Curly head rest, 
Till the moon fades 

Out of the west. 

Emory College. 



EVENING REVERIE.* 

The golden sun from sapphire skies, 

Sinks in a ruby sea; 
I gaze upon the fairy vision, 
Like a scene of sweet elysium. 

Or ray of poesy ! 
The shadows of the western sky. 
Wrap all the earth in mystery! 

I sit and watch the pale moon rise, 

A seraph-lamp of Paradise 
In lonely reverie ! 



* The above poem excited the lyre of a Western bard to song. A rising 
poet of Kentucky thus sang of Mr. \V'ray : 

0, youthful bard of Southland's clime, 

Who coins pure thoughts in prose and rhyme, 

And weave them into songs ; 
As sweet as wild birds' cheerful lays, 
Thy songs, like theirs, are fraught with praise. 

To thee alone belongs. 

Like harps in tune through Tara's halls, 
Swept soft 'along its jasper walls, 

So beautiful and sweet; 
Just so thy charming verses ring, 
And everylhousehold welcoming — 

Thy name and fame doth greet. 



LET ME KISS YOU ONCE AND DIE. 

Let me kiss you once and die! 

The world is full of pain and woe, 

Sorrow's tears forever flow, 
Duty reigns above the sky, 
Let me kiss you once and die ! 



Enough to charm Admetus' flocks, 
Inspired by woods, and rills, and rocks, 

Bow down at Nature's shrine, 
And offer up thyself to her, 
Dame Nature's fondest worshiper, 

Thou noble bard divine ! 

On silken wings the Muses fly, 
And at thy bidding soar on high, 

To realms of perfect bliss ; 
And there upon Parnassus' height, 
Seraphs of song in praise unite, 

And greet thee with a kiss. 

Dear brother bard, I do revere 

Thy name and poems, pure, sincere, 

I love thy perfect ways ; 
May bards of spirit-land come down, 
Place on thy brow fame's brightest crown, 

And bless thee all thy days ! 

A. W. H. 



LET ME KISS YOU ONCE AND DTE. 51 

Oh, darling, for a kiss I sigh. 

Let me drain the draught of bliss. 

Let me steal a nectared kiss, 
Drink love's rosy chalice dry, 

Let me kiss you once and die ! 

Virtue is a dreary sigh, 

I am fainting in the strife, 

On the battle-ground of life, 
Darling ! darling ! hear my cry, 
Let me kiss you once and die ! 



DREAMING. 

I sit alone in the twilight, 

I am dreaming, Marie, dear, 
There are zephyrs murm'ring near me, 

But they seem thy voice I hear ; 
And the waters wail so sadly, 

As along the beach they pass, 
Mourning mem'ries of the lovely. 

Lying in the soft sea-grass. 
But they've wrapped my lonely spirit, 

With a spell of such delight, 
That I'm dreaming I am with thee, 

Darling, in the June sunlight. 

I can see the pale stars glimmer. 

Far, far out upon the sea, 
Where the ships drift out so slowly, 

As you drifted far from me ; 
And the sad moon lies serenely, 

Cradled on the sky's pure breast. 
Where the stars blaze in their glory, 

Emblemsof eternal rest ; 



DREAMING. 53 



And the sad harp in my bosom, 
Soundeth forth a dying strain, 

0, my darling, I am dreaming, 
That I were with you again. 
Tybee I$land. 



TO ELLA IN ELYSIUM. 

I dreamed of you last night, dear one, 
While love-stars glittered in the sky, 

As I was dreaming all alone 
You came to cheer my misery. 

The earth was filled with purple light, 
While Flora scattered odors sweet, — 

You came to me my soul's delight, 
Although your shadow passed so fleet. 

The flowers were sleeping bathed in dew, 
Bright moonbeams lay upon the sea, 

The lone sky never seemed so blue, 
Nature was wrapped in mystery. 

My soul leaped from its prison bars. 
The nightingale broke forth in song, — 

You came to me from God's bright stars, 
Where ever harps an angel throng. 

We went back to that sweet May-time, 
To the reign of love and roses, 

When every hour seemed a rhyme. 
Which the zephyrs soft composes. 



TO ELLA IN ELYSIUM. 55 

We wandered 'mong the lilies fair, 
'Neath rosy-tinted morning skies, — 

Ah! sweet, siioh days in life are rare. 
For they are dropped from Paradise. 

Oh, gaily bloomed the wild, green woods, 

Overhead the orange blossom. 
Came smiling down in snowy floods, 

While I clasped thee to my bosom. 

poet, tune your lyre and sing, 

Ah ! bard, wail for the golden years, 

bright-plumed songsters caroling, 
In laughing eyes bring saddest tears ! 

And, oh ! sometimes, sweet angel blest, 

Visit again my sad repose. 
And bear me from Elysium's rest, 

A healing balm for all my woes. 

August, 1885. 



LOVE. 

Some strike Apollo's lyre to wake the songs 

Of bitter sorrow — dirges of the dead, 

Chant strains of melancholy harmony, 

Gilded with scenes of years forever gone 

Into eternity— the vast unknown, 

Or ghastly Agony the dreaded fiend, 

Stalking athwart the lonely mid-night gloom, 

With his damned sister, frenzied Misery, 

Glazing Joy's eye, or paling Beauty's cheeks; 

Aye, bards sublimely picture Horror's form, 

In cursed Gorgon funeral terrors clad; 

But oh 1 I sing of sweet poetic Love, 

The tender tyrant of the human heart — 

The gentle maiden of the laughing eye — 

The careless Queen crowned with her locks of gold, 

Sweet, I am captive in th}^ realms of bliss. 

For thou hast bound me with thv rosv chains! 



IN MEM0RIAM/!< 
I. 

She's fled from this prison of sorrow and pain, 
She has gone from the places that knew her before, 

Where the fetters of earth cannot bind her again. 
And the cry of afiliction can reach her no more. 

She is missed from the paths of charity's vale, 

Where the moans of the sufiering die 'way on the 
air, 
She is missed at the shrine of her loved husband's 
heart. 
But most is she missed at God's altar of prayer. 

We mourn for our loved 'neath the moon's silver sheen, 
I weep for my aunt at Aurora's pale heath, 

We wail for our dear as we gaze on the green, 
But our plaints cannot break the deep slumber of 
death. 



'•'The above poem was written on the death of Mrs. A. H. Sconyers, of 
Midville, Ga. (an aunt of the poet), who departed this life Februarys, 
1885. 

4 



58 IN MEMORIAM. 

Though the spirit all chainless has soared to its rest, 
Through the fields of ether rejoicing doth roam, 

To the realms of Elysium — to the land of the blest, 
And the songs of the ransomed have welcomed it 
home ! 



IN MEMORIAM.^ 

II. 

*'0h, Death !" cried God to nis angel, "go 

And bring more flowers for this lonely room, 
Away, away to the earth below, 

And gather the sweetest ones in bloom." 
Then pluming his wings the angel swept 

In swiftest flight 'cross the hyacinth sky. 
The lover folded his bride that slept 

In closer embrace as he hurried bv. 

A bright rose opened its fairy cup. 

He bore it hence to the halls of death; 
He gathered the lilies and daisies up. 

That shrank from him in their vernal sheath ; 
The cries of pain he softly hushed, 

As he wandered among the snowy bowers ; 
The zephyr mourned for the ones he crushed 

And the dewdrops wept for the ravished flowers. 

And to the shrine of knowledge he came. 
Braving Minerva's disdainful frown, 



••■■Tenderly inscribed to the memory of one Mr. Lee, a fellow-student 
of the poet, at Emory College, who died in January, 1886. 



60 IN MEMOKIAM. 

And scoruing friendship, the soul of flame, 
He madly trampled ambition down! 
H: * * * * * 

"He had just begun his work," they say, 
" He labored thro' sun and showers," 

But the dark night fell ere the bright noon-day 
Had dawned on his morn's glad hours ! 



MEMORIES. 

And the bright stars still are shining, 
Still the summer zephyrs blow, 

But that darling voice is silent 
Which I heard so long ago. 
Hush ! sad mem'ries murmur low, 
" So long ago." 

And yet the old woods are lonely, 
Still the laughing waters play, 

But the past with all its joy 
Has forever fled away. 
Hush 1 the mournful mem'ries say, 
''Oh, fled away." 

And still the melancholy sea 
Thunders there below the hill. 

But the dear old happy faces. 
Which my childhood did fulfill, 
Lie yonder near the forest mill. 
Silent and still ! 

Hush ! oh, mem'ries, mournful mem'ries, 
Once I loved you all too well, 



^^ MEMORIES. 

Now my soul is faint and weary, 
Childhood days a long farewell. 
Hush ! the mem'ries, sad and dreary, 
Mourn "Farewell, farewell!" " 



DREAM SONG. 

Sitting alone in the gloaming, 

My darling, I dream of thee, 
When I shall be sighing no longer — 

When you shall be ever with me. 
As I dream the moon shines bright and cold 

On the surging, restless sea. 

As I dream of our sweet, fond planning, 

The voice of the cursed sea, 
Sounds like a lover's broken vow, 

Or a dying minstrelsy. 
And I wake to think that you are dead, 

And I wail in misery. 



ODE OX THE DEATH OF PAUL HAYNE. 

Rise — rise ! ye bards — rise up ; 

Sigh not in sorrow ! 
Fill — fill the pledging cup, 

We shall die to-morrow. 
Drink — here — at the shrouded door, 

Joy — we give out brother ; 

Joy — that from this reeling shore 

The gods have called another. 

\_R. B. Wilson. 

I. 

Life's golden sun has set, the day is done. 

The Southland mourns, a noble race is run, 

Why ? — he who Fame's proud temple-gates had won, 

By death is stricken low ! 
The mournful news is sped across the sea, 
Through Albion's vales and sun-bright Italy, 
E'en in the rosy realms of revelry, 

Are wails of deepest woe. 

The South was dreaming in the arms of night, 
The hill and lakeside bathed in pale moonlight, 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF PAUL HAYNE. 66 

Farewell was breathed, the spirit took its flight, — 

The poet passed awa.y. 
The skeptic sigheth, '' whither will he roam, 
Over the mountain brow and ocean foam ?" 
The angels answer, "to his home— sweet home, 

The blaze of heavenly day." 

II. 

It was not princely power he strove to win, 

It was not wealth his fancy reveled in. 

It was that love which makes all men akin. 

To purpose truly great ; 
The perfect sense of duty ever known. 
Gave his Apollo's lyre that lofty tone. 
It was that Christian feeling which alone 

Gives "heart for any fate." 

And he hath left a voice in verse and lay, 

A beacon light to those of after day. 

And oh ! he sought the Holy Grail for aye, 

As mariner the shore. 
Ah, tearful Sorrow, dry thy weeping eyes, 
Oh, tender, saintly Pity, cease thy sighs, 
He tunes a golden lyre in Paradise, 

At rest forevermore ! 



TO J. V. J, 

In the midnight, oh, my darling, 

In your great despairing woe, 
When the moon is setting sadly, 

And the stars are burning low ; 
When the winds are sobbing faintly, 

O'er the silv'ry summer sea, 
In your sadness — in your sorrow. 

Darling, never think of me. 

But if mem'ry should enslave thee. 

Love, I pray thee ne'er repine. 
Oh, remember, little darling, 

Tnat you once were wholly mine. 
I am weary of the battle, 

I can almost wish to die, 
Life's lighted with gleams of sorrow, 

Death with blaze of misery. 



DESPONDING LIFE. 

^'•Forsan et haec olivi meminissejuvahiV — Virgil.* 

Nature has wept this evening, her bright tears 
Still tremble on the pansy and the fern ; 

The rose is fresher since its wind-swept fears, 
And e'en the passion-flowers brighter burn. 

Harsh words have hurt my heart and made me grieve, 
The day has been so dark without the sun, 

My task has proved too hard, yet I believe 
Some one has wept to-day as I have done. 

Yes, some one's sobbed to-day, as I do now, 
Those sad, suffering sobs of tearless pain, 

And felt the frenzied fever-heated brow 
That was not cooled by summer's soothing rain. 

Others have prayed and wept disconsolate. 
And up to God they've sent a madden'd cry. 

Shrieking the world was cruel — desolate. 

And staffs on which they lean'd all broken lie. 

Some one has lost to-day a cherished prize. 
And known the anguish of a pinioned soul ; 



"■•Terhaps it may give delight hereafter to have remembered these things. 

— [fjlANSLATION, 



Q8 DESPONDING LIFE. 

Tonight he bears the grandest agonies — 
The failure in life's race to win the goal. 

Another, he has asked and been denied, 
In his despair he nursed a mighty pain — 

Pang of a human wish ungratified. 
Oh ! now he feels his life's great work was vain. 

Some one has greater things to bear and do, 
Have harder tasks than yours which he contends ; 

Others are farther oflf from Christ than you, 
Know less of love and kindness — have no friends. 

Oh ! are ye tired to-night, too tired to speak 
As Hesper sinks in the evening's glow ? 

Dear hearts and souls that's grown so very weak, 
Ah ! one day ye shall rest forevermore. 

There is a draught in Lethe, suff'ring one, 

A ''rock" to hide thee from the world's alarms, 

A "refuge" e'er the "hue and cry" be done — 
Remember thou the "Tender Shepherd's arms." 



TO ONE IN HEAVEN. 

Blue was the sky, the month was poet's May, 
The birds were singing sweetly over head, 
The blushing roses nodded fresh and gay, 
And you were dead. 

The morning sunlight gilded earth and skies, 

AV ith pearly dew the fragrant flowers were wet, 
But all was darkness to my weeping eyes, 
Life's sun had set. 

I looked upon your face so strange and cold, 

I saw your white hands folded on your breast, 
T kissed your lips as in the days of old. 
You were at rest. 

I strove to wake you from that silent sleep, 

I called you sweetest names — my love — my own, 
I wept in vain, your slumber was too deep. 
Your spirit flown. 

Oh ! but to call thee back once more, my love; 

We never know the treasures that we own 
Until bereft, by angels passed above, 
We are alone. 



70 TO ONE IN HEAVEN. 

And now that I can kiss thy face no more, 

This life — this weary life I would resign — 
Oh, gladly go with Death beyond our shore, 
For smile of thine. 



MAY. 

Now Nature pours her first and sweetest wine, 

And like some Naiad by the silv'ry streams, 
Lies the enchanted May, wrapt in divine, 
Passionate dreams. 

The lofty tree, the lowly flow'ring herb. 

The fairest rose of season and of clime. 
All wear alike the robe of the superb 
Fairy spring-time. 

Where April hid her blossoms 'neath the fern. 

Now festal May opes them fold after fold, 
And in the pansies' hearts now faintly burn 
The fires of gold. 

The moon above the purple wood appears 

Rising in her magnificent array, 
Keeping her vigil of the countless years, 
The poets say. 

But while fair Flora gilds the bud and leaf, 

And mock birds in their rosy bowers sing. 
Great Time, all silent in his mighty sheaf, 
Binds up the spring! 



72 MAY. 

Oh ! pond'rous sheaf, which never is unbound; 

Oh ! Reaper, whom our souls beseech in vain ; 
Dear sun-lit days, which never more are found, 
Or loved again ! 



"BUT I WILL EVER, EVER LOVE.'' 

The mocking bird may cease to sing, 
Among the pine boughs in the grove, 

The flowers forget to bloom in spring, 
But I will ever, ever love ! 

The lyre may lose its sweetest strain, 
The pilgrim zephyrs cease to rove. 

And laughter turn to wails of pain, 
But I will ever, ever love! 

Passion may ravish virtue's charms 
And truth a cursed liar prove, 

Helen abandon Paris' arms 
But I will ever, ever love! 

The stars of heaven may burn no more. 
And angels quit their courts above, 

The wintry sea may hush its roar. 
But I will ever, ever love ! » 



THE PINE. 

The elm, the oak, the cypress, each hath beauty, 

As they wave 'neath the soft blue summer sky ; 
To love the pale olive is a duty, 

For it looked on the Savior's agony. 
The cedar, poplar, fir and ash trees vie 

In lovliness. The hollow maple old, 
The warlike beech, the sad myrrh's weary sigh, 

The trembling aspen is fair to behold ; 
And the laurel, the poet's crown of green, 
The lover's forlorn willow, tender scene. 

Sweet also is the scented birch tree glade ; 
But oh, I love the dark, passionate pine, 
For it has ever been my muse's shrine, 

Oft have I tuned my harp beneath its shade ! 



UNTIL DEATH. 

Darling, summer now is d3dng, 

Long its noon-tide glow has passed ; 

Soon that wraith — the solemn autumn, 
O'er the hills its shadows cast. 



And the vernal leaves above us 
Will put on a sombre hue. 

Brightest flowers blooming round us, 
Buried lie from our view. 



Then remember what you promised, 
When the skies were bright above, 

With flushed cheeks and blue eyes glowing, 
You returned my vows of love. 

Oh, will love fade like the flowers? 

Will dark winter find you true ? 
Love must live through death, my darling, 

Through the snow-drift and the dew. 



78 . UNTIL DEATH. 

And when life grows sad and dreary, 
Burdened with the cross of care, 

Love must live like blushing roses 
You twine in your golden hair. 



A HEART HISTORY. 

The day is wild with wind and rain, 
From mountain brows to ocean's shores, 

The fierce storm wails a sad refrain, 
And through it all the great sea roars. 

Sad is the day, but sadder still 
My broken heart lies in my breast, — 

Poor passion is too dead to thrill, 
My weary soul yearns but for rest. 

The day is dark with Nature's strife. 
Yea, strife without and strife within, 

Its emblem burns in my young life, 
Brings back a day of cursed sin ! 

A siren brought me to my grief. 
Mad Love has been my sin, for ah ! 

Love proved a meteor dread as brief, 
Ah ! me, I thought it was a star. 



80 A HEART HISTORY. 

Mourn on, stormy sky to day, 

Send forth your songs of saddest pain. 

Dear hope and love are laid away, 
My life will ne'er be bright again. 



LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 

If, sometimes in the years to come, 
You pass a dim unnoticed grave ; 

Dear reader, pray that I'm at home, 
Where winter winds ne'er wildly rave. 

That this poor heart which long hath felt 
The frenzy of love's glowing fire, 

To Heaven's holy halls is delt. 

And there tunes a soft seraph's lyre ! 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD, 



THE FAIRY QUEEN'S DEATH.* 

Oh, God ! if not to me belong, 

Immortal Cowper's Christian tone, 

Nor Hemans' old melodious song, 
Yet with a sense of Fashion's wrong, 

My boyish Muse lays her best gift before thy throne. 



I. 



'Tis the close of day, 

In the month of May, 
And the lonely woods are still : 

The sky is drest. 

In a purple vest, 
As the sun sinks 'neath the hill ; 
The birds have hied to their nest in a throng. 
And naught is heard save the sorrowful song 
Of the whippoorwill as she floats along, 

Or the woodlark's distant trill. 



-This poem, containing about twenty-five verses, was written when the 
poet was about twelve years of age; its moral was to show how much sin 
and shame lurked in the silly revelry— dancing. The remainder of the 
poem was lost, we regret to say. 



SB THE FAIRY QUEEX's DEATH. 

II. 

In yon shady dell 

'Neath that rugged fell, 

They have madly danced in glee ; • 
The fairy hoast 

To the musical toast 
Of the night-bird in the tree. 
I have beat the timbrel and pla3^ed the lute, 
Or list to the notes of the fairy flute, 
From bulrush made by an Oread cute, 

When the moonlight gilds the sea. 



GEORGIA. 

"Land of the South ! imperial land /" 

1 love our sunny Georgian clime, 

With skies of deepest blue, 
Where there is naught save summer time, 

And birds of ev'ry hue ; 
Where Philomel forever sings 

Her songs so sweetly sad, 
In every solitude there rings 

A strain to make thee glad. 

I love thy quiet fields and woods, 

I love thy laughing streams ; 
O'er thy fair scenes my mem'ry broods, 

In childhood's brightest dreams. 
I love thy noble history, 

I love thy mighty dead, 
Oh, thy great sons of chivalry 

On freedom's altars bled ! 

And when far from Georgia's mountains, 

O'er the wide earth I roam, 
I shall find no flashing fountains 

So bright as those at home. 



38 GEORGIA. 

'Neath Italy's sky of glory, 
And in some Grecian grove, 

Or 'mid Egypt's ruins so hoary. 
None vie with those I love ! 

Proudly our '' Forest City" stands, 

Near Bonaventure's shade, 
The queen of our imperial lands, 

Metropolis of trade ! 
And yonder is Augusta's mart, 

The storehouse of Ceres, 
And here is Macon, Georgia's heart, 

On Ocmulgee's leas. 

* 

Atlanta is the seat of wealth. 

With richly paved streets ; 
Fair Toccoa is the home of health, 

And Athens science greets. 
Oh, may our laurels ever spring, 

And stately cities rise, 
And till old Time shall fold his wing 

Remain earth's paradise. 

I praise grand Georgia in my rhyme. 
And all her many charms, 

God bless our glory-crowned clime, 
Guarded bv valor's arms ! 



GEORGIA. 89 

Oh, God ! we thank thee for this home, 

These cities of the free, 
Where pilgrims from afar may come 

To bask in liberty! 



LOVE'S SONG * 

Through the moonlit hours and all day long, 
My little love, you have heard my soni? ; 
In winter dark you've list'd to my tune, 
And now in the rosy days of June, 
iEolian airs I harp for thee, 
My youthful Queen, sweet, careless Marie ; — 
I ring out a joyous Lydian strain, 
For I would not give thy bosom pain, 
With a sad lay's mournful melody, 
Like Anacreon, Love's symphony 
Alone, I softly chant, nevermore 
Will I wake Cadmus, hero of yore. 



"'•'The following criticism, " tJiis cfassic'and lesfhctic critU'ism {?), was written 
by a very learn^cZ gentleman ( !) when this poem although it had been pub- 
lished before) made its appearance in the Georgia Colhge Jovrnal last 
spring.— Author. 

THE POET'S "LOVE'S SONG." 

" The youthful Queen, sweet, careless Marie,' ought to be a very happy 
girl. There are young ladies in this and other lands silly enough to con- 
sider a young man eligible who shows himself sober, honest and indus- 
trious. Stuff and nonsense ! AVhat does that amount to? What, in fact, 
are any sacrifices compared with that awful self-slaughter expressed in 
the grand lines of our poet— 

" Henceforth grand fame shall forgotten be, 
Life, lyre, soul, heart and love are for thee." 

Talk about giving up home comforts, enduring hardships, and all that 
sort of thing for the sake of a girl. My young lady friends, that is noth- 
ing. When you remember that there is a " grand old Hercules " to whom 



92 love's sokg. 

Israfel's songs warbled in Heaven, 

Are not purer than these tones riven 

From my sighing, soothing lyre of loves, 

With notes as soft as a gentle dove's. 

Once in the years forever gone by, 

I sung of the wild red battle cr}^, 

But lately my harp has changed its tone, 

And now it can breathe of love alone. 
And oh, when my thrilling harp I seize, 

In honor of grand old Hercules, 

The bold high chords melt to softer themes, 



a fellow might " do honor" with a " thrilling harp," or such "heroes of 
old" as Messrs. "Eneas and Atreus so bold" whose praises his muse 
might sound to his own profit and the delight of his admiring friends; 
when you recollect that besides these there is still a host of pagans — gods 
and heroes — of whom one is in duty bound to think, sing and write; in- 
deed, to spend a considerable part of one's life in so doing, when, with all 
these solemn and important duties staring him in the face, a fellow de- 
liberately and heroically turns his back upon them and devotes his whole 
being to the express purpose of singing about Marie, you must admit that 
we here have an example of devotion to which the pages of history fur- 
nish no parallel. 

The smitten youth does mention a few attempts made by him to play 
some other things on his harp, but " no go;" as if bewitched, or like a 
hurdy gurdy fixed to make only one tune, it breathes no other strain than 
love and Marie. 

"Nothing in earth or Heaven above 
Can move my lyre but the songs of love." 

Poor lyre ! Happy Marie ! 

All so fortunate as to have been readers of the poem referred to must 
have been struck with the pathetic allusion to our poet's les^ve-taking of 
his venerable friend, Achilles. Could anything be more sublime than the 
noble line, "I say good-bye to Achilles, too?" Notice the emphasis ex- 
pressed in the word " too." 



lovp:'s son(;. 93 

As sweet as thy own fair summer dreams. 

Henceforth grand fame shall forgotten be, 

Life, lyre, soul, heart and love are lor thee, 

So farewell to ye heroes of okl, 

Eneas and Atreus bold ; 

I say good-bye to Achilles too, 

And giants who storm the ages throuirh ; 

Nothing in earth or Heaven above 

Can move my lyre but the songs of love! 



Another fine passage is the one referring to "Cadmus of yore." It 
would appear that " once in the years gone by " he was in the habit of 
calling up the spirit of the old Phoenician without a moment's notice, 
but since he has "tuned his lyre to love alone," he resolves to leave the 
old gentleman to his slumbers, or as he touchingly expresses it — 

" Nevermore 
Will I wake Cadmus, hero of yore." 

One could hardly believe that a young man so tame to look at, and who, 
at present, sings with " notes as soft as a gentle dove's," formerly kept 
his harp tuned exclusively " to the wild, red battle cry." But such is the 
noteworthy fact. AVhat a metamorphosis ! X. Y. Z. 



DO YOU EVER THINK OF ME ? 

Do you ever think of me, dear, 
In your distant Southern home, 

Far across the purple mountains, 
Far across the ocean's foam ? 

In the land where blooms the flowers, 

Where all day the singing bee 
Hums among the forest bowers. 

Do you ever think of me ? 

When the bright sun reigns in glory 

Over that Hesperian lea, 
Oh ! my darling, oh ! my darling, 

Do you ever think of me ? 

When the new moon sheds its beauty, 
Painting land and gilding sea, 

Remember, darling, 'tis your duty, 
Do vou ever think of me ? 

Do you ever think of me, love, 

In that fair Georgian clime, 
Where the days seem naught but moments, 

And the hours rosy rhyme ? 



96 DO YOU EVER THINK OF ME ? 

We are parted here forever, 
Oh ! my bonnie blue-eyed bride, 

''I give rest unto the blessed," 
Years ago the Savior cried. 

Do you ever think of me love, 
• On fair Aiden's distant shore ? 
I shall one day meet you there, love, 
Tho' I'll see you here no more. 



APRIL. 

Oh, laughing April, wake in rosy glee, 

Smile o'er the plains, and hills, and swelling floods, 

And in your blossomy dells and budding woods, 
Call your bird-choir back o'er the Southern sea, 
From the spice islands to whose shades they flee. 
At dawn j^our skies are rose and tender gold, 
And soon the crimson gates of day unfold, 
To close in purple pomp when Hesper's hour 
Precedes the night, regnant in her star-dower; — 
Her dews, and silences, and moon-beams bright. 

So pass thy days, daughter of festal Spring, — 
They drop like jewels from far Paradise, 
Golden with sunshine, cool with zephyr's sighs, 

Fair promise, blue eyed April, dost thou bring. 



A DREAM. 

I dreamed that you were dead, love, 
In long white robes you lay, 

Your heart was cold and still, love, 
Your spirit flown for aye. 

I stood beside thy bier, love, 

From my eyes fell scalding tears. 

For I'll never see thee more, love, 
Through the long, long, lonely years. 

Ah ! to have died for thee, love, 
And gone to the ghastly grave, 

Gladly would I have given, love, 
My poor life thine to save. 

I wander to the church-yard, love, 
The little church-yard on the hill, 

"Forgive, I've often grieved thy heart. 
Though 'twas not meant for ill." 

You answer not my longing soul. 
You do not heed my bitter woe, 

Tho' an angel in the heaven's cries 
"Thou wast forgiven long ago." 



lOU A DKEAM. 

So my broken heart must be patient, love, 
M}^ love I lost long years ago, 

Oh ! to be at home with you, love, 
At rest — at rest forevermore. 



MARY E. BRYAN. 

Muse of the South — your dearest pride, 

Whose name is breathed with loving boast 
From the Potomac's waters wide 

To the Floridian coast — 
Land of your birth, which orange flowers 

Crown with a bridal crest ; 
Yet where the Lone Star forest towers 

Your name is known and blest. 

Yours is in truth a Southern star, 

Child of a tropic clime, 
And yet your light radiates afar 

And broader grows with time. 
Pale Sorrow's children through their bars 

Catch notes of your sweet lyre, 
And lift their eyes to see the stars 

And draw to Beauty nigher. 



FOR LOVE AND THEE. 

My life is for love and thee, darling — 
My life is for love and thee ; 

With your peerless grace 

And your flower-like face, 
My life is for love and thee, darling ! 

Though, do you care for me, darling? 
Oh, do you care for me ? 

Your pride is so great 

That I fear for my fate, 
I fear you don't care for me, darling. 

But my love and life are for thee, darling. 
My love and life are for thee ; 

I'll adore thee till death 

Steals from me my breath ; 

My life and my love are for thee, darling ! 



